Death and Transfiguration of a Poet
by Yvi
Summary: [AU] In which Nini's temper gets the better of her before the tango.


~Disclaimer~ 

Think now, would Baz really mistreat this lot the way I do?

~Notes~ 

Written in one morbid burst Thanksgiving night, unedited by anyone save myself since then. I apologize in advance for mistakes of any kind. The title is derived from the short story "Death and Transfiguration of a Teacher" by María Theresa Solari (read it and you'll see why).

~Warning~ ­

Disturbing content. Death and deception in colorful detail. Very, very dark. 

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The final night should have been an anticipatory one. Opening night only a day away, spirits soaring giddily, faces baked into grins by the spotlight; this was the cataclysmic end-all that frayed nerves and laughs until no one remained untouched. Everything as prepared as it could possibly be, left with nothing to do but count the hours. The last rehearsal, by rights, should have been followed up by an impromptu party, something to take minds off the strain they were under, wine and kisses all around, and a good night's sleep ensured. By no means should anyone have been sitting up late, clad in underpinnings and smoke, waiting for a miracle.

Black-clad in the dancehall, seething and smoldering like the Spanish dancer she wasn't, one was particularly indignant. Silence from every face, but the screaming in her mind was too emphatic to remain unnoticed. _You can't do this, Shakespeare. You can't just come in here, build a fucking mountain of hope, then decide to tear it down on a whim. We're all a part of this now, not just you. Selfish idiot, don't you know this could undo us all?_

It was no less agonizing to observe the phthisis of the cast at large, withering by the moment. Smoke was accumulating at the ceiling, revoltingly symbolic, the cloud of gloom and apprehension gradually growing over the entire gathering. 

Nini dragged a wineglass from between Urchin's dirty wrists and downed the contents. ­ Dominatrix was spinning Gypsy's stiletto with casual finesse. China Doll had slumped lethargically on the Argentinean's lap. Liberty murmured something and Historic's slender face slowly spread under the crimson wings of an artificial smile. Nothing changed.

It wasn't fair, that was the heart of the matter. The idealistic boy comes strolling into chaos, throws his words around until they raise stakes and aspirations alike, then threatens to rip everything apart again by bedding the star. Nini's thoughts sounded petty even to herself, but then, she could afford to be petty. She certainly wasn't the only one.

And there he sat, their writer, looking so meek and martyred that Nini wanted to slap him. Glassy blue eyes flickered resentfully. It was his fault everyone had become embroiled in the mess at all; he had no right to look that way. Her hand twitched, and she wondered what he would do if she brought it against his face with all her strength. But she curbed the impulse. Instead she swung onto his lap, caught the shocked look in his eyes, hated it, and drawled, in the most offensive tone she could muster: "Don't worry, Shakespeare…" 

And a few bent backs straightened in the midst of the stupor, a few grins gratefully flashed. Leave it to Legs-in-the-Air to speak what was on everyone's mind while getting in a personal dig at the writer at the same time. But he shoved her away, the angriest anyone had ever seen him, and something snapped.

"You get your hands off me!" As the words jarringly punctured the silence, a few more grins emerged, one or two faded. The audience sat enthralled, watching this new addition to the show. China Doll was suddenly alone and a strong hand was resting soothingly on her back, but the antagonist hardly noticed. 

Someone was speaking, blazing vituperations stumbling over each other as they staggered off her tongue. "…­think you can come in here and turn things upside down with your stupid poetry, write the show and then take our chances away, but it doesn't matter if it fails or you're found out 'cos at least you're happy…"

And then, in that dignified British accent, frigid and deliberate. "You don't understand love because you're too twisted and bitter to ever have it for yourself."

"Bastard." The calm before the storm, it was spoken softly, nearly whispered, which should have given some warning of what was to come. But by the time those still able to stand had jumped to their feet, she had already gone at him. 

One did not survive in a nightclub for years on end by being the proverbial wilting flower. The dance and everything that came with it required more strength and wit than most strangers to the business would imagine: alleyway battles with clients or thieves, nighttime meetings with no one else near, a rendezvous gone horribly wrong. It could all very easily become a matter of fighting back with everything available, with nails and teeth, kicking durable dancing shoes like hooves into the opposition's stomach, ripping the comb from one's lank black hair and raking it down a descending face. Somewhere, instinct and emotion overtook logic, hardly an uncommon occurrence for her, and everything disappeared save the overwhelming insult of Christian's existence. There was a triumph, a morbid euphoria in throwing passion into its most destructive incarnation. Small hands curled into claws, the flesh gathering under her fingernails, the sting of the slap on her face. Nini hardly felt it, actually laughed out loud that the boy had it in his romantic soul to strike a woman, then encouraged the cacophony by sinking her teeth into an ear until she could hear upper incisors meeting the lower, shaking her head like an animal. Relinquishing only when a much stronger hand knotted itself in her loosened hair (the gouging comb long since snapped in two), let go only when it came away with long black strands twisted around its fingers and sent her drowning in the tortured cries that might have been his or hers or both together. Dance like the devil, kick after strategic kick until he tore one shoe off her foot, leaving scarlet lashes on her ankle; between flashes of pain, coming faster and faster, noting with grim satisfaction that the handsome writer hardly looked like a man anymore. Deep red furrows from forehead to chin, tears streaming from a newly bloodshot eye, a clump of dark hair still clenched in one of the bony fists she hurled at him again and again. 

It could hardly have lasted more than a minute before shouts and limbs came between them. Gnashing her teeth, foreign blood on her tongue as they seized hold of her, grasping tight enough to form new bruises as a low voice spoke and a dark hand clasped hers. 

Whatever he said, it never reached her ears. ­Through the white-hot fury exploding behind her eyes, she noticed that Dominatrix had set down the stiletto. Moving in a whirlwind of rage and alcohol, Nini shot away from the Argentinean's arms and snatched it up.

"Nini, don't be stupid…"

"Holy God, what're you at?"

"Querida, put down the knife."

The grisly mask was laughing, sickly and ironical, from where the Tabasco Brothers had pinned Christian near an overturned chair. She bristled like an alley cat, eyes narrowed to colorless slits, hair wild around her face, and deliberately tightened her hold. As one, the crowd tensed, all eyes on the enraged dancer with the knife. She was brandishing the blade as she would a gun, with both arms rigidly in front of her. "Do not touch me."­ Hardly needing to calculate the practicality of interrupting Nini in the midst of a rage, no one did.

Walking awkwardly in only one shoe, she made her way to Christian and glared down at the Brothers. "Hey, Ferrau, Andre. D'you want to fuck off and let me do business here?" When neither moved, she lost patience and lashed out with her unshod foot, catching Ferrau under the chin. Andre made a grab for her ankle in an attempt to catch her unawares and bring her to the floor, which she sidestepped. "Let off, damn it." 

She almost smiled when Christian urged them aside with implacable calmness and another mirthless laugh. "Go on, let her say what she has to say." 

"Good boy. Nice that y'finally figured how things work around here." Nini smirked and dropped to one knee, dead white skin showing through the new holes in her stocking. "Even if it's, what, twisted and bitter, is that it?" 

He jerkily tried to rise at that, but she kept the knife on him, quickly moving closer and pressing the point into his skin when she felt hands on her shoulders poised to pull her away. "Don't," she barked, never sparing a glance from the writer. When nothing relented, she lifted her elbow and increased the pressure on the knife until Christian inhaled tremulously. "Get off me." The writer was nodding carefully at whoever was behind her. The hands released her, then, and she eased up slightly, keeping the knife close enough to remind everyone of the possibilities.

Silence, then murmurs all around, swearing in half a dozen languages, voices calling at her to let up, step down and leave things be, it was enough of a tragedy already. Then Christian spoke, carefully, apparently wary of breathing in too deeply for fear of the blade. The words were cracked and quiet, but loud enough to matter: "It must be a sad life, having to beat people into shape to get what you want." 

The ­nerve had been hit, and her first response was to sneer defiantly, swearing to herself that no one should ever be so incisive while streaked with blood and being held at knifepoint by a cancan girl. She scowled, suddenly yanking a slim silver ring off her finger. "Swallow it."

The torn face regarded her in confusion, ragged ears (she had done true damage there, she noticed contentedly) unsure they had heard her correctly. "You're insane," he finally pronounced. 

"Kind of you to notice." She extended her hand, still holding the knife steady in the other. "Now swallow it. A present from the most twisted place in Paris. It'll remind you you're not as high and holy as you think."

He had the audacity to laugh, a fact Nini managed to turn to her own advantage. Both hands moved. Faster than seemed possible, the knife was against skin and a fine line of blood was cutting a bright path down the writer's neck; the ring was gone and the only sounds were the hiss of Nini's breath between her teeth and of Christian gagging.

Someone screamed.

One final futile cough and he was collected as ever, if rather more flushed. "You can't win. ­You'll never be happy the way you are. Ugly. Empty." Cracked lips parted in a macabre smile. "Jealous." That was enough. When he spat on her like the barbarian he had come to resemble, it was too much.

They did succeed in pulling her away from him that time, but the worst damage had been done. He had gotten in a good blow to her face when he was able, but Nini had grown up on the streets and she knew where to strike. "Rot in hell," she managed to yell, shrieking like a demon until two hands clasped her jaw closed and then more hands were pinning her arms behind her back, the knife was gone, and seemingly everyone in the dancehall was holding her immobile. 

Antoine, who did an act in which he freed himself from a straitjacket, asked if he should fetch one for her and—"For God's sake get her _something_. Don't let…!"— somewhere to the left of her, the Argentinean fell to the floor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

­On Tarot's bad nights, she wore a veil in case a nosebleed started. Arabia had reluctantly stopped wearing her own veil and settled instead for draping a few strands of charms across her face. Now the filmy cloth was crumpled where the Italian girl clenched it to her face with red-smudged knuckles. Satie's fingers splayed in a spasm on the piano keys, pounding out discords every time he flinched. French Maid had fainted. Pearly Queen somehow managed to look slightly bored with the whole affair. 

Nini sat listlessly as half a dozen performers strapped her into the jacket, too sapped of strength to fight even with words. Screams had died in her throat, and awareness and madness mixed in her eyes as she surveyed her handiwork. The rest of the ragged ensemble had fanned out around the scene, for the most part unmoving, looking both solemn and stupid in their undergarments. She coaxed out a snicker.

"This isn't funny!" Tartan exclaimed shrilly.

Nini lacked the energy to reply. She sat back and listened as the talking began. 

"It's easy enough," Loial, one of  the acrobats, was saying for the benefit of anyone who would listen. "Throw him in the Seine an' no one'll ever be the wiser."

"Anyone ever finds him, they'll have no way to tell. Make it seem like he was robbed, that's all."

"Wait, do bites and bruises show up long after death? He's got enough to get traced here, I'm sure of it." Several faces paled further at that.

"What're they gonna do, come by and check everyone's teeth to see if they match up? They'd never."

"It's what they're here for, y'know. They might. An' even if they don't let's not forget he's got her ring in his stomach. Y'might want to get that out before tossing him away."

The air was suddenly incredibly cold. Arms crossed and secured, head lolling on one shoulder, Nini cast a longing glance at where the Argentinean lay, forgotten in favor of the other form on the floor. "Jesus," she croaked. "The ring."

The hall fell silent again save muffled sobs and heavy breathing. Chocolat looked at her. "From one of the gentlemen. The one from Portugal." He nodded gravely. "Engraved, wasn't it, with something in Portuguese?"

Nini refrained from stopping to wonder for the thousandth time how he managed to know such things. "And my name," she muttered, forgetting herself and attempting to slam a fist against the stage. "Damn it!"

"Excellent job of the engraving, too," Pearly Queen added vaguely. "How d'you go about getting something like that done?"

"Cheaply, Jessamy," Nini snapped. "But that's not the most important matter just now, is it?

"So make it look like he stole it," Urchin said uncertainly. "We can put jewelry in his room…"

Polka Dot frowned. "Harry'd see through that; he knows we'd have talked of it if our things were disappearing." 

"And why would Christian eat a ring?" one of the contortionists demanded.  

"We could just tell the truth," Andre said simply. Nini nearly fell over. "She pulled off the whole thing herself," he calmly continued. "No need for anyone else to hide what really happened."

"Don't you fucking _dare_," she howled, writhing in her cloth prison. "I didn't plan on it, you know that." Sitting up straight and doing her best to look intimidating, she proclaimed, "No one leaves here till there's a plan."

"You're a savage," someone remarked coldly.

"And you've got no way to stop anyone who wants to tell," Ferrau added. "Like always, it's everyone for himself"

"It's not, actually," Schoolgirl spoke up authoritatively. "There's loyalty with this kind of thing, if it's merited. He didn't deserve it, but then, she didn't plan it. It happens out of anger all the time."

Nini could have kissed her. "Y'have to know I didn't plan on this," she announced in a reassuringly steady voice. "Yeah, I hated him for what he did, but I didn't want him dead. You can't just hand me over for something I didn't mean to do. Even if you do, it won't only be me who catches the blame. Harry'll go mad." 

An almost comical lull followed this assertion as glances and whispers were exchanged. The disheveled creature in the straitjacket had spoken truly; ramifications of the writer's demise would be far-reaching indeed.

"And now?" Dominatrix demanded, breaking the spell.

Tattoo sighed impatiently. ­"Haven't you had t'dispose of a corpse before?"

"Yes, but not under these circumstances."

"It doesn't matter," Schoolgirl snapped. "Best make sure no one ever finds him. She's right: if Harold finds out there'll be hell t'pay."

"He'll have no way of knowing it was anyone from here," Urchin insisted.

"Are you out of your head? For one thing, he's got Nini's ring in him. For another, it's known she always goes at the ears an' hair in a fight, an' he's got the worse for both. Even if we deny it or try an' say she was framed, he'll know it's somehow connected with somebody here."

"It'd be better to have him disappear," one of the clowns noted, "get rid of him completely. Maybe make it look like he left willingly and went back to England."

From there, the gruesome suggestions flew thick and fast: cut him up and throw him in the river, leave him in an alley and hope no one comes by, find somewhere to bury him, leave him in an abandoned building, burn him and get rid of the ashes…

"Oh," twittered Môme Fromage in a feeble attempt at humor, "just eat him."

Nini looked up.


End file.
